


Propinquity

by professorcockblock



Category: Captain America (2011), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professorcockblock/pseuds/professorcockblock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony reacts to the presence of Captain America in his life. A small drabble that is vaguely smutty, a little bit fluffy and mostly exists because I had no lectures this morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propinquity

The way Tony figures it, Steve _is_ Captain America. How Captain America comes across all noble and chivalrous, heart stuffed full of aspirations to save puppies and help old ladies cross the street? That’s not an act. The way Captain America stands like a chiselled piece of 40’s propaganda, Steve actually stands like that. It ridiculous, Tony thinks. Fucking ridiculous. He’s never met anyone so sincere, so maddeningly earnest. Most of the time he feels like he’s maybe all the different parts of a person, bits and pieces all jumbled together and stuffed inside a metal suit. But he looks at Steve, Steve who is just so goddamn _whole_ , and he doesn’t know how a person can be quite so frustratingly real.

Looking back at it now, he was probably flirting with Steve from day one. Not with intent, not really, not to start with, but it was so hard not to mess with him. Fury presented him like a golden goose, and Steve, well Steve didn’t really know what to do with that. Ever the self-deprecating superhero, even then; ready to do his duty, serve his country, save the world. He was so wholesome, so candid, so unflappable that all Tony wanted to do was, you know, flap him. To see how he’d react to being challenged, pushed, played with; Tony wanted to get underneath the red, white and blue, and see him _blush_.  
It was a couple of days before he realised he really wanted Steve, maybe a week before he realised how badly. Steve was broad shoulders, blue eyes, and the demeanour of a character from a post-war sitcom. He was so prim, so fucking proper that Tony ached to slam him against the nearest vertical surface, pin him there and fuck the composure right out of him. He wanted to lick his way down that chest and mutter ‘Captain’ against Steve’s skin like it was something dirty, to tease away all of his good manners and leave him raw and breathless. He wanted to be owned, for Steve to rake perfectly clipped fingernails down his back, flip him around by his hips, and bite at his shoulder until Tony cried out. Wanted Steve to lick an obscene stripe up Tony’s neck and suck at the smooth skin just behind his lobe. To forget about propriety and niceness, press their bodies flush together and growl a torrent of filth into Tony’s ear. To see him let go and just allow himself to _want_ for once. To bend Tony over and move roughly against him, feel every single raw and shaking inch of skin and muscle and sweat. He wanted to strip away Captain America and hear Steve Rodgers shout as he came.  
So, okay, maybe there was intent from the start.

Looking at it objectively, Tony supposes he’s probably pretty fucked. All his life he’s known who he was, what he wanted. _Obstinate_ , Pepper would say; _driven_ , Tony would retort. It’s not that he actually _is_ all that sure of himself all the time, but he sounds like he is, which he figures amounts to basically the same thing. He’s always been the person around which other people bend, the guy that other people change for, but now here is Steve, this paradigm of everything decent and real, and Tony’s never wanted anything like this before. It’s a slow burn right down in his gut and it throws him off kilter, messes with his sense of direction. So he recalibrates, rediscovers latitude and longitude, regains his balance and distantly wonders when due north had become the uncomplicated heat of slow Sunday morning kisses that taste like coffee and morning breath. He can’t say he minds that much, what’s lost in finesse is made up for with the lazy slide of lips and hot tongues that mean _good morning, I’m glad you’re here_.  
That thought is when Tony realizes that he’s probably pretty fucked.


End file.
